


Inescapable

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Eponine Survives, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Relationships, Canon Era, F/F, Gen, Pre-Femslash, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3113711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine regained her senses. Fool! she thought bitterly. This gentleness could surely be nothing but a mask, if Cosette had even so much as a suspicion -- and if not, then truly she was too good to be made of flesh and blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inescapable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StripySock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/gifts).



> This is a sequel to [Lost and Found](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2194113); both stories contain some handwaving when it comes to Éponine's wound and her chances of survival, but it's all for a good cause. Thanks so much to Esteliel for looking this over!

The sensation that woke her was strange, and it took her several drowsy moments to realise its cause: a cool hand on her brow, gentle enough to leave her unsettled. 

Éponine opened her eyes slowly. The gaze that met her own was unfamiliar at first, and then, with a great shudder, she remembered.

"The Inspector brought you," Cosette said. Yes, Cosette was her name, a lark no longer but a swan, a dove, something graceful and unreachable. Éponine's head spun. The hand was still on her brow. "You were terribly ill. How are you feeling?"

"I'm..." Her mouth was full of sawdust and gravel. 

The hand withdrew, only to return a second later, holding a glass of water to her lips. She swallowed, wincing, grateful despite herself. Then she lay back again, already forgetting what she'd been trying to say.

Cosette did not press her further. "I thought you'd die," she said frankly, "when he brought you here. I've never seen such a pale face in my life. And Toussaint -- she's our housekeeper -- assisted the doctor, when he came to see you, and when I asked, she said you had a wound that had got infected. Does it hurt?"

Éponine tried to feel whether it did. True, there was a dull ache in her side, but her body felt heavy and limp, as if she'd lost all capability of pain as well as pleasure. Her thoughts were a mist, Cosette's words standing out in clarity only for a few seconds before slipping away. A doctor? 

"I suppose I should leave you alone," Cosette said, gentler now. She got to her feet. "You've had laudanum, Toussaint said. You should sleep some more, and then I will see you in the morning."

"Wait..." Eponine blinked slowly, drowsily. Bits and pieces were coming back to her: the barricades. Her wound. The time she'd spent -- a week? two weeks? -- under bridges and in shacks, covering her wounds with the rags she could spare. 

"Javert," she murmured, licking her dry lips. Yes, she remembered it now. Or had it been a dream? He, of all people, helping her -- that was too ridiculous to be real. But then again, what was she doing here?

Cosette nodded. "As I said, he brought you here. He's my father's friend." 

Now that was definitely impossible, and Éponine opened her mouth to say as much, but then drowsiness again overwhelmed her. She sank back down on the pillow, closing her eyes. Everything was a mystery, and all she wanted to do was sleep. But something bothered her still. 

"And you?" she heard herself whisper. "Do you know who I am?" 

No answer. With an effort, she opened her eyes. Cosette was watching her, her expression unreadable to Éponine's tired gaze. Then she turned away, towards the door. "Sleep," she said. 

 

*

 

When next she opened her eyes, it was to the sound of voices, half-muffled, as if coming from another room. Éponine stretched a bit, wincing -- the pain was back now in full force. She felt along her side, and her hand met clean bandages. Not a dream, unless it was one of those cruel ones that led you to believe in them for a little while. 

She pulled the blanket to her face and took a deep sniff. It smelled clean. Then shame hit her with brutal force as she realised her hair was still dirty, clinging in clumps to her face. But it wasn't her fault she was here! she thought angrily, pushing a greasy lock away from her brow. She had been found and taken away by that old copper, Javert, for some reason known only to himself. 

Now she realised that one of the half-muffled voices sounded like him. Her eyes went to the door, glancing past the bare walls on their way -- what a simple room it seemed, but of course they wouldn't put her in their best suite at any rate. The door was ajar, and straining her ears she could make out the words.

"... but I didn't know what to do," Javert was saying, his voice oddly frustrated. She'd heard him a few times before, being on the lookout; he'd sounded different then, barking his orders. Still, it had to be him. "I wouldn't have brought her here unless I thought you'd want me to; that is, I would not cause you any trouble --"

"You did the right thing," another voice reassured him. Éponine frowned. Was this the rich cove who had taken Cosette away? But he was a fraud, not a bourgeois but an old jailbird of some kind. Her father had been on his case, digging into his story -- she didn't know more than that. What was Javert doing, being friends with him? Had Javert gone mad? The very fact that he'd taken her here instead of to prison seemed to suggest so. Or was _she_ going mad, imagining things? 

"I'm sorry, Valjean," Javert said, almost too soft for her to hear. "I have given you another burden when by rights I should do anything to take them away."

Valjean. So that was his name. Éponine narrowed her eyes. For a brief second she wondered what her father would give her for this piece of information. Then she tossed the thought away. Let the old bastard rot, wherever he was!

"Not a burden," Valjean said, equally softly. "Simply a child in need of help." 

A child! Éponine felt her mouth twitch bitterly. Could he really be that ignorant of the ways of the world? She hadn't been a child for years. But of course, Cosette would be different, the pampered little princess with her costly dresses and her garden and her Marius, that spoilt girl who'd got everything she wanted --

"A child?" Javert sounded as impatient as Éponine felt. "Valjean, I told you: that's Éponine Thénardier, a female delinquent. Her father is in league with Patron-Minette, I'm sure of it. By rights I should have taken her to the station, not to you."

"But you didn't." 

There was a long moment of quiet, long enough for her to wonder whether they'd left. But then Javert spoke again.

"I would do anything," he repeated, his voice strangely husky. "Anything, Valjean." 

This was a mystery all of its own. Did this criminal -- Valjean -- have some kind of grip on Javert? But if so, Javert would surely be resentful, angry, and instead he sounded -- insecure, affectionate, if it was possible for Javert to be capable of those feelings. But that made absolutely no sense at all. 

"I know, Javert," Valjean said, and if he too didn't sound tender, Éponine would bite off her own arm. She gave up trying to understand any of it. 

After a while, Javert cleared his throat. "So what now?"

"We will let her sleep some more," Valjean replied. "I'll summon the doctor again if necessary, but Toussaint has some experience tending to wounds, and she says she knows what to do. Cosette has volunteered to help her."

 _Cosette._

Éponine closed her eyes, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She could not say what was happening, much less what was about to happen; all she knew was that she feared it, and that there was no escape in sight. Perhaps Javert had taken her to prison, after all.

 

*

 

The housekeeper, Toussaint, was small and wrinkly, speaking with a stutter. Éponine thought there was a determined innocence to her, like she had long ago decided not to ask or care about such things as rebellions or crime. 

"Plantain poultice," Cosette said, hovering by the bedside. "The doctor turned up his nose at it, but Toussaint knows it works, and so do I. We learnt some herb lore at the convent; I remember most of it. I'm going to restrain you if you move. Isn't that right, Toussaint?" 

Éponine groaned as the old woman's hands carefully washed the wound and spread a sort of warm concoction on top of it, but she managed to hold still. "I'm not going to move," she said stiffly. This was nothing, after all. And she'd be damned if Cosette, of all people, should see her scream and writhe -- wasn't it bad enough that she should lie here, dirty and disgraced, and be taken pity on by the Lark and the jailbird who'd bought her?

Cosette looked at her thoughtfully, then came closer. Before Éponine knew it, there was that hand on her brow again, cool and smooth. "No, I'm sure you won't. You're doing well."

She sounded sincere, kind. But surely that kindness must be a mask, hiding triumphant glee, if she remembered at all, if she had any idea -- if Valjean had told her -- Éponine's thoughts were scattered in a brief moment of pain as Toussaint pressed a new bandage to her wound. "Ah!"

"Hold it fast, Mademoiselle," said Toussaint in her wispy voice. Cosette's hand left Éponine's brow to keep the bandage in place while Toussaint refastened the bindings, and for a moment Éponine did not know whether to feel disappointed or relieved: she could not remember the last time anyone had touched her so gently. 

Then she regained her senses. Fool! she thought bitterly. This gentleness could surely be nothing but a mask, if Cosette had even so much as a suspicion -- and if not, then truly she was too good to be made of flesh and blood, too good to touch such a creature as Éponine, and she should keep her hands to herself at any rate.

When they were done, Cosette thanked the housekeeper and asked her to go prepare soup. Then she turned towards Éponine. "You haven't had any real food yet," she said, in that same damningly kind voice. "I will bring back a tray for you later." 

Bring back a tray -- as if she were a servant. Éponine almost laughed, but the mere thought hurt. She grinned instead, a twisted grimace. How ugly she must look! But let Cosette be repulsed, let her be scared off. That was as it should be.

"Your father's friend," she said, noting the sarcasm slipping into the words. If Cosette noticed as well, she did not let it on, but she stopped in the doorway, turning. "The Inspector. What's his game?" 

"He saved your life," Cosette said, sounding just the tiniest bit impatient. "Or took the first step, anyway. We're doing our best to help, my father and I. Will you let us?" 

Éponine exhaled. She lay back. "This is all wrong," she murmured, mostly to herself. "I shouldn't be here."

"But you are." And now there was a passionate edge to Cosette's voice, as if she truly cared -- and why she would, Éponine could not fathom, unless it was all part of some kind of revenge. Yes, that must be it. What else could this girl want with her? 

"You're here," Cosette repeated, taking a step towards the bed. "We'll help you. And then -- you can tell me what happened. If you please."

This time, Éponine did laugh. It hurt, and she relished the pain.

"Ha!" she muttered, wanting to sound harsh but finding it strangely difficult in front of this girl. Cosette, disguising her revenge as kindness, watching her so intently, and looking so infuriatingly lovely with her thick brown hair and her pale skin and her crisp blue dress. A falcon, she thought, not a dove. Something dangerous and magnificent. "As if you'd want to know." 

Cosette said nothing, but took a step closer still. She started to reach out her hand, but then stopped, as if she'd meant to touch Éponine again and thought better of it.

Éponine couldn't take her eyes off her. The whole situation was unreal. Perhaps it wasn't a dream, then -- she still could not believe in it.

"Angel," she murmured, for an old man had called her that once when she'd tried to do good. "Don't you have any idea who I am?" 

Cosette sat down, then, next to her on the bed. She kept her hands in her lap, slender fingers folded neatly together, but there was tension in them, a whitening around the knuckles. "Why don't you tell me," she said.


End file.
